


I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours

by helens78



Category: due South
Genre: Bruises, Fights, First Time, M/M, Painplay, Podfic Available, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser keeps coming to work looking beaten and bruised, but when Ray notices Fraser's hands are all scraped up, too, he does a little investigation.  Finding the club where Fraser's been getting those bruises leads to a lot of interesting mutual revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours

**Author's Note:**

> I know the tags are really weird on this one, so let me explain -- this was inspired by a ds_kinkmeme story which asked for "F/K, fight club". The violence is graphic (I go into detail on the fights), but it's consensual, more along the lines of a sport than actual fighting. It's a first-time romance fic and not in any way an abusive fic, but if punching, fighting, fight clubs, and bruising are not your thing, please be advised!
> 
> PODFIC! The lovely Luzula recorded this one: [you can find it here](http://amplificathon.livejournal.com/691006.html)!

When Fraser comes into the 27th all banged up, Ray actually sees red. Not the serge red, not the Mountie red, but _red_ red, like he's looking at everything through one half of an old pair of 3-D glasses. Like the whole world is red and black, and he is going to kill somebody for doing this.

"Jesus _hell_, Fraser," Ray says. Fraser stares at him oddly for a moment, then clutches his hat in his hands and looks down at it.

"I heard there was a robbery," Fraser says to his hat. "Perhaps you could walk me through the timeline, as we know it so far?"

Ray could be stubborn about this, wants to be. The red's fading, though, yellows and blues and greys coming back to his view of the station, so he takes a long, deep breath, and he nods.

"Yeah, okay. So it started with a moose."

"A... moose?"

"A school mascot, yeah. He was outside..."

* * *

His opponent's name is Jeff. Fraser shakes his hand before they get started; people around here know that's just part of Fraser's routine. Everyone has a routine, whether it's doing a quick couple of toe-touches to stretch, or throwing a round of jabs into the air, or raising arms to the sky and looking around, trying to get the audience on their side.

Fraser just wants one moment of contact before the fight begins. People assume it's because he's an unusually polite person. That's part of it, of course. It also gives him a split-second to gauge the man on the other side of the imminent conflict. How quick is he? How smart? How strong? How fast? Does he back down from an intense gaze?

The handshake over, Fraser steps back and raises his fists.

He lets Jeff take the first few swings. The first one is hard, but easy to dodge. The second one is sloppy, no real power behind it, not even quite on the mark. Fraser doesn't dodge that one. He lets his head snap to the side, takes a pair of steps back. Jeff grins at him.

Fraser grins back.

* * *

"Are you--are they sending you somewhere?" Ray asks. He fidgets in the booth, trying not to look at Fraser's face but unable to look anywhere else. He dips a french fry into his ketchup, trying not to think about how it looks kinda like blood, how Fraser must have bled some from that cut he's got by his eyebrow. "Like, without me?"

Looking confused at first, Fraser pauses, seems to get it, and shakes his head. "No, I'm not--I haven't been working without you."

Last week's bruises are still yellowing on Fraser's cheek, and today his lip's swollen. This cannot be presenting a good picture of Canada when Fraser pulls guard duty outside the Consulate. Ray blinks; he figured Fraser didn't love guard duty, the man's too active to really like standing still for hours, but would he really get someone to punch him in the face in order to get out of it?

Ray's vision swims, going all red again, as he really thinks about that. Fraser wouldn't--Fraser _couldn't_ be asking somebody to hit him, but somebody's hitting him anyway. But Fraser's putting up with it. Why is Fraser putting up with it?

"You okay there, buddy?" Ray asks. His voice sounds hollow to his own ears, like he's listening from the other side of the restaurant window.

But Fraser doesn't hesitate. "Of course, Ray, I'm perfectly fine." He tilts his head. "How are you?"

Ray stuffs his mouth with a handful of French fries. Like he's got an answer for that.

* * *

Lucas has one of those power handshakes, the kind where one tries to snap bones in the other man's hand. Fraser likes him immediately.

He likes him more once the fight starts. Lucas has a whip-thin build and lingering bruises all over his chest--he does this quite a bit more often than Fraser does--and when he swings, he uses his entire body. His technique is lacking, he doesn't seem to know exactly where to aim, but he commits himself with every single blow.

He doesn't shy away from taking the hits, either. He's not afraid of Fraser, not even after seeing the ways Fraser's taken apart other men week after week. There are men who realize they're about to face Fraser and respond by laughing, cursing, saying things like "Just not the teeth, I'm out of dental for the year" or "This is gonna be a royal fucking bitch". (Fraser only realized after the fight was over that the latter of those wasn't meant to be a Canadian slur, an oblique reference to the Queen. He ended up apologizing to the man and offering to buy him a beer.)

So when Fraser comes into the circle with Lucas, he gives it his best effort, holding nothing back, his knuckles slamming into Lucas's body, Lucas's hands raining down against Fraser's shoulders, chest, abdomen in return.

It's the best fight he's had since he got here, and if he ends it early, it's because what he really wants out of Lucas can't be done here, in this environment, surrounded by other people.

To Fraser's utter lack of surprise, Lucas has similar thoughts.

* * *

Weird. Fraser's always careful sitting down, so as not to wrinkle the uniform, but today it's like he'd do just about anything to avoid it. As a result, Ray bumps into Fraser more than once, but the last time, when he's trying to get around Fraser so he can grab a file out of the drawer, Fraser goes all stiff and tense. When Ray looks up at him, Fraser's expression is oh-so-carefully blank.

Red, red, red--Ray can't see anything but--and he grabs Fraser by the tunic and pulls him down the hall, up the stairs to the supply closet. He shoves Fraser inside and tugs the chain for the light; the bare bulb goes swinging back and forth.

"Show me," Ray says.

"I don't know what you--"

"Show me the goddamn bruises, Fraser," Ray yells. Hopefully nobody's walking by. Hopefully. "You think I don't know you got the shit beat out of you?"

Fraser pauses for quite some time, but he's got no hat to hide behind; he left it on Ray's desk. He rubs his eyebrow. "I'm not injured," he says quietly. "I really am fine, Ray."

"Bullshit you're fine. You got someone _beating_ on you--"

And the picture snaps into perfect Kodak clarity.

If Ray's been seeing red before, this time he blacks out almost completely. He's aware that he's grabbing at Fraser's tunic, aware that he's pushing Fraser into the shelves, but he only comes back to himself when he realizes what he's saying.

"--kill him, I will _kill_ the son of a bitch, I don't care _who_ he is, how _long_, goddamnit? How long have you been seeing this guy?"

Fraser's eyes go shocked, then shamed, then shut. "It isn't like that," he whispers, sagging back against the shelves.

"_It isn't like that?_ You don't have a boyfriend who's hitting you?"

At that, Fraser looks up. "No, Ray," he says, firmly--and damn it, the Mountie's got no poker face; he isn't lying. "I most certainly do not."

Ray's still clutching Fraser's tunic; his hands open and close, making a mess out of the fabric. "Okay," he whispers. "Fraser, listen to me--_listen_, okay?"

"I'm lis--"

"No, shut up, shut up, just listen." Ray closes his eyes and inhales and exhales until the world comes back to him. When he looks back up at Fraser, Fraser's waiting.

"I would do anything for you, you know that? Anything."

Fraser's expression softens, and he reaches up, his hand gently touching the back of Ray's hand. "Of course, Ray."

"You got trouble you need help with, I will drop whatever I'm doing and I will be there."

Fraser's fingertips move down to the back of Ray's wrist, glancing over Ray's bracelet. "I understand. I'd do the same for you."

Ray looks down at Fraser's hand on his, and the rest of his words die out in his throat. He finally steps back, and he lets Fraser go.

"So, okay, we're clear," he says, and he turns on his heel and walks out of the supply closet without another word.

Bruised. Fraser's hands are bruised. Why didn't Ray notice that before?

* * *

There's someone new here tonight. There are catcalls, jokes--people yelling "Fish! New fish! Fish for dinner tonight!" and a few cheers of "Virgin!" besides. Fraser hasn't seen the new man, but the atmosphere has been dialed up a notch this evening because of him; all the fights are a little more brutal.

Fraser has a reputation for wanting to be the first to fight a new combatant. People tease him for wanting to be first to get crack at a so-called virgin's ass. (Face or chest is more accurate, but Fraser has gotten used to the layers of innuendo here.) For some men, "deflowering" a virginal contender is undoubtedly the appeal. That's not it for Fraser; Fraser knows the reality of a fight is different from the fantasy of one, and he's good at gauging the moment when someone's excitement turns to desperation. He doesn't have so much invested in his ego that he can't tap out if things are becoming dangerous, or if need be, quickly lay an opponent out on the floor.

People here so often see what they want to see. No one realizes that he's trying to take care of his partners, which is just as well. He has more than enough people in his life who see him as a soft touch; he doesn't need them here.

Eventually, it's the new man's turn, and people make a hole in the crowd for Fraser. He steps into the light and stops cold; the other man's half-out of his shirt, face covered, but Fraser would recognize his body anywhere, even if it weren't for the ball-chain bracelet wrapped twice around his wrist.

"Ben, meet Ray. Ray, this is Ben." A man who's fought and won tonight slaps Ray on the back. "You can trust this guy," he tells Ray. "You don't want him to knock your teeth out, he won't."

"Yeah, I'd rather keep my teeth where they are," Ray says. Fraser blinks at him. "Anything else goes."

Fraser shakes his head. "You're making a mistake. Put your shirt back on and we'll go--"

A few members of the crowd laugh--at the words themselves, an echo of many stereotypical things people say to intimidate their opponents; at Fraser's tone, serious and earnest with no bravado; at the futility. The first time a man walks into one of these places, he can't leave without fighting.

"You can do it, I can do it," Ray says, chin up. Proud. So damnably proud. He dances from one foot to the other, warming up. "You want me to fight someone else, I can."

"No!" Fraser pulls his own shirt off and hands it to one of the surrounding men. Fight someone else? No, Fraser knows the men here too well. So many of them don't know how to pull their punches, don't even try to avoid causing serious injury to their opponents. It won't do.

He doesn't know if he can actually hit Ray--not again, God--but maybe he can at least make this quick. He takes a step back and readies himself--

"No handshake, Ben?" The man holding Fraser's shirt looks startled. Fraser looks at him for a moment and turns to Ray; the other man's right. Ray deserves a handshake like anyone else.

He holds out his hand and waits for Ray to clasp it. Ray takes Fraser's hand in both of his.

"Ray, I'm sorry--"

Ray shakes his head. "It's not about that. I ain't pissed."

Fraser raises his eyebrows. "You're not?"

"Nah. I mean, you coulda knocked me over with a feather, but no, no anger here."

Ray's hands feel warm, very warm, on Fraser's. Fraser licks his lips, which are suddenly quite dry.

"You really can't leave without fighting," Fraser says softly. "I'm sorry. I would have warned you--"

"I don't mind if you don't."

"I can find you someone else." And he can kill them, afterward, if they hurt Ray. _Yes, that's a mature way to plan for exigencies. Well done, Benton._

"You wanna watch me fight someone else?"

Fraser's hand tightens on Ray's, and he realizes: _No. No, I don't want to watch that._ Heat floods him at the thought, because he knows _why_ he doesn't want to watch it, and the answer has much more to do with the remembered scent of Lucas's sweat than any desire not to see Ray hurting.

Whatever's showing in Fraser's eyes, Ray nods at it, nods a couple of times. He squeezes Fraser's hand and lets go.

"So on with the show, buddy. C'mon."

* * *

When Ray was twenty-five, he heard rumors about places like this. He didn't think much about them. He never got sent in to break one up, never heard that people were being brutalized or charging each other for assault, so it was never all that relevant to Ray's daily life.

But Fraser's repeated bruises, his shiftiness--shifty! Fraser!--and finally his battered knuckles, and Ray went digging. Ray's good at digging, and he knows a lot of guys who make a living with their fists.

Finding Fraser's hideaway fight club, though, that was a whole 'nother thing. Fraser was one of these guys, was part of this; even not getting to see him fight, it was obvious. He was maybe a little strange, but everyone here had some way of not fitting in, something they needed to rail against. This was Fraser's secret life.

Ray wonders when this got started. Before or after they actually came to blows with each other? Fraser took a punch pretty well even then, threw one even better. But this, here--this isn't what happened right before the Henry Allen. This is camarad--camaron--_comrades_, buddies, some kind of uber-macho kinship thing. Whereas that, trading punches after their little Butch and Sundance routine, that was almost the end of their duet altogether.

Fraser doesn't look anything like he did back then. Tonight, Fraser's stripped down to his jeans, barefoot. Fraser's sweating from the heat and press of too many bodies, he's got his fists up to protect his face and chest, and he looks like he does this all the time.

_He _does_ do this all the time. Does he eyefuck the people he's about to spar with every time, too?_

The thought distracts Ray so much that Fraser's first punch totally blindsides him, nearly doubles him over. But at least Ray knows the score, now--knows that Fraser's not going to hold back--and he comes up swinging.

* * *

Fraser's shocked that he lands the first punch; Ray didn't even try to block it. But when Ray comes right back at him, the adrenaline shoots through Fraser's body, and he meets Ray blow-for-blow, hit-for-hit, ducking when he can, blocking when he's able. He bears in mind what Ray said about wanting his teeth where they are--in all honesty, one doesn't want to cut one's knuckles open on a stranger's teeth anyway; Fraser of all people knows the many kinds of things one can end up with in one's mouth--and tries to avoid the face, and Ray does the same. It's mostly body blows, front and back, nothing too far below the waist--although Fraser misses, once, and lands a punch squarely in the center of Ray's right buttock. Ray limps forward, bent over at the waist, and the crowd shoves him back at Fraser.

"Enough?" Fraser asks.

Ray looks up; there are red marks all over him, and as careful as Fraser's been, there's a bruise forming at his left temple. His skin's shining with sweat, and Fraser can see the flush of blood in his muscles, giving him a healthy glow. He sees the Champion tattoo on Ray's bicep and has a momentary urge to grab Ray and sink his teeth into it, leave his own mark over the permanent one.

He's so caught up in the fantasy that when Ray says "Not even close," Fraser only has a moment to react before Ray lunges at him.

* * *

This _hurts_. Fraser's got a right hook that ought to have a warning label on it, and his left arm's not shirking, either. Ray feels battered, _is_ battered, but he's like one of those watches that takes a licking and goes on ticking.

And fuck--the rush from this, from having people cheering him on _this way_\--it's almost blinding. Nobody's got a mad on. Nobody wants to see somebody busted up just for kicks. Ray kind of gets it, maybe, kind of sees what Fraser's doing here. A guy can learn a lot about himself in a fight. All these guys have probably learned a lot about themselves here--Fraser included.

When he lands his next punch on Fraser's ribcage, he can feel the jolt all the way up to his elbow. His hand's done for; he can't fight anymore. He waves Fraser off, and Fraser pulls his last punch just in time, stopping an inch from Ray's left hip.

"Are you all right?" Fraser asks.

"Jesus, c'mere," Ray says, stumbling forward into Fraser's arms.

* * *

Both of Fraser's hands ache, and he's already starting to bruise. Ray's in much the same condition. Fraser holds onto Ray when Ray clutches at him, burying his face in Ray's shoulder. The room's so heavy with the scent of sweat and blood that it can be hard to pick out one smell in particular, but now, with Ray's sweat smeared over Fraser's face and across his chest, there's nothing else--_no one_ else--in the room at all.

There are more hugs, more men, more slaps on the back and congratulations. Ray's complimented on surviving his first match, and Fraser gets teased for going too easy on the new guy. Somewhere in all that, they manage to retrieve their shirts and shoes, and no one blinks twice when they leave together.

They don't talk about that part. They both climb into Ray's car, groaning all the way, and Ray puts them on the road to his apartment.

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

Fraser looks out the window. He catches his reflection in the glass and reaches up to his jaw, feels a slight tenderness there left by Ray's hands. _All_ of tonight's soreness is because of Ray.

He's quiet for the rest of the drive.

* * *

Ray has some trouble with the lock when they get home. The endorphins are wearing thin, and his right hand feels like somebody's taken a sledgehammer to it--except he was the sledgehammer, and what his hand ran into was Fraser.

"Let me," Fraser says, gently prying the keys from Ray's fingers. His hands are reddened and swelling, too, but he gets the front door open, and they walk inside.

"I got ice in the freezer," Ray says. He flexes his hand. _Ow. Ow. Ow._ "You want me to find a towel?"

Fraser looks down at his hands. He lifts his left hand up to his jaw and presses at it, and Ray can see a faint mark there, pink now, maybe something that'll come up purple in the morning.

The last time Ray hit Fraser, he was shaky and sick about it until he talked Fraser into evening the score. This time, guilt's the furthest thing from his mind. He walks over to Fraser, reaches up, and pushes Fraser's hand away from his face. Looking at that spot more closely, yeah--it's going to bruise for sure. It's not so bad right now, probably wouldn't be terrible if they got some ice onto it and Fraser took some ibuprofen for the swelling, but--_but_.

"Can I?" he whispers. Fraser reaches out and puts his hands on Ray's hips, and he turns his face to the side, exposing that spot on his jaw. Ray can feel his hands shaking as he reaches up to wrap a hand behind the back of Fraser's neck. He takes a deep breath first, trying to dig up a little courage now that the moment's finally here, and he puts his lips on Fraser's mark.

* * *

Ray's mouth is hot against Fraser's skin, but he's being cautious, gentle. Fraser squeezes Ray's hips; this just isn't--it isn't how he's used to--

"I need," Fraser says; his voice cracks, and he has to clear his throat and start again. Ray angles back to look at him, and Fraser forces himself to meet Ray's eyes. "I need more," Fraser murmurs. "Please."

Ray looks him up and down. "Fraser--anything, man, just tell me. Or show me. Whatever you need."

There aren't many people Fraser trusts to the extent he trusts Ray, but even so, it's difficult to ask. _Show me_, Ray said. Fraser nods, and once Ray lets him go, he strips his t-shirt off, tossing it aside. Ray looks him over, stares at the bruises--some old, some new, some still forming--that cover Fraser's chest and stomach.

There's one on the lower part of Fraser's ribs, over on the left. Fraser remembers the exact moment Ray gave him that one. He remembers the connection and the pain and the harsh, shocking ache of it. It's one of the bruises that's already visible, purple and red on Fraser's pale skin.

He reaches out for Ray's hand and carefully unfolds it--Ray's knuckles look like they badly need ice, but Ray doesn't seem inclined to get it yet. Fraser can understand that; he isn't ready for ice yet, either.

He places Ray's hand over the bruise on his ribs. Ray sucks in a breath; Fraser watches him. Ray's breathing is unsteady, and he's got his eyes glued to their hands, to the place Fraser's led him.

Fraser reminds himself that Ray started this--Ray came to the club, Ray agreed to fight him, Ray kissed the bruise on Fraser's jaw--and bearing all of that in mind, he keeps his hand on top of Ray's, and he squeezes.

* * *

That's it. That is _it_. Ray's circuits overload, his brain freezes, he can't do anything but stand here and drool like a dog. Fraser's holding Ray's hand over a bruise, over a bruise Ray left on him, and he's _squeezing the goddamned bruise_. He's making _Ray_ squeeze the fucking bruise.

And he's making a noise like Ray associates with sex--good, hot, filthy, messy sex. He's doing it quiet, moan coming out from between his teeth, but he's moaning all the same, and Ray gives in and squeezes again, harder, while he comes forward blindly and tries to find Fraser's mouth with his own, tries to touch him and kiss him and hurt him all at once.

* * *

Ray misses, but Fraser turns his cheek slightly, and then they're on each other, kissing rough and deep against sore and swollen lips. Fraser reaches out and clutches at Ray's shirt, tries to pull him closer. "Ray. Ray--_please_."

"Oh, God, yeah," Ray pants. "_Yeah_, Fraser--"

"Ben."

"Ben," Ray murmurs. He brings his hands up again, cups Fraser's face in them. His thumb rubs against the sore spot on Fraser's jaw, and Fraser turns into that touch, closes his eyes when Ray presses against it. "Ben. Can I--"

"_Yes._" Fraser gets his arms around Ray's waist and holds him tightly. "Take me to bed, Ray."

* * *

Ray can't remember the last time he made his bed. It's a tangle of sheets and blankets. Fraser doesn't even seem to notice; as soon as they're in the bedroom, he grabs Ray by the shirt and pulls him down to the bed, dragging Ray on top of him. Being dragged by the shirt just reminds Ray that he's way overdressed, so he kneels up and strips his shirt off, and when he looks back down at Fraser, Fraser's staring at him.

No. Staring at his _bruises_. He reaches out and brushes his fingertips against them, moving from one to another in a pattern that seems random at first, until Ray gets it--he's moving in sequence, remembering their fight through the marks on Ray's body.

"You missed one," Ray says softly. He takes Fraser's hand and moves it behind him, puts it on his right asscheek. Fraser grabs him hard, hard enough Ray gasps and thrusts forward in spite of himself. "Fuck," Ray groans. "Fraser--_Ben_. Why the hell are we still dressed?"

"I did wonder," Fraser says, and his hands come up to Ray's fly, yanking the button open and reaching for the zipper, too.

* * *

Fraser's hands--Fraser's hands are in Ray's pants, Fraser's hands are, oh, God, on Ray's cock, on his balls, and Ray stares down at them, Fraser's cut and bruised hands working his cock like he knows what he's doing--like he really, really knows, and Ray grabs Fraser's hands by the wrists and pulls them away.

"Too fast," he says, panting. Fraser looks partly crestfallen, partly hurting from the grip, and partly really turned on, and Ray just pushes him back, pinning him gently to the bed, because he's on top already and he can do that.

Pretty much all of Fraser's expressions melt into the really-turned-on one, and Ray tightens his grip on Fraser's wrists. "I'm not saying don't touch me," Ray murmurs. "Just--I don't wanna go off like a shot, okay? I've been waiting for this long enough I'd rather take my time."

Fraser's eyes go wide. "You've been--how long have you wanted to...?" He glances from Ray's half-naked body to his own, and Ray follows that glance, almost wishing he hadn't--seeing Fraser naked to the waist and pinned underneath him isn't going to take him further away from coming like a fourteen-year-old with his first copy of Playboy. "I didn't realize..."

"Forever," Ray blurts. He licks his lips and squeezes Fraser's wrists again. "Just--always. Always."

"My God, Ray," Fraser whispers. He twists one of his wrists under Ray's grip, and Ray lets that one hand up so Fraser can reach out and touch him--touch Ray's face, gently, up near Ray's left temple. It's tender enough Ray realizes there must be a bruise, and--holy fuck, Fraser's touching his bruise, he's looking up at Ray like Ray's ice cream and it's a hundred and ten out, and Ray can't stand it anymore; he drops down again and kisses Fraser hard, kisses him like he wants to cut into Fraser's lips and leave more bruises.

* * *

Fraser wraps his arm around Ray's neck and holds him as tightly as he can. It's always been fleeting before, encounters with other men, other combatants, but this--Ray didn't come to the club so he could pretend this never happened. And it's already different from the times Fraser's been with other men from the club: they're kissing, and touching, and it's not a race to see who can come faster, which--_thank God_. He's had too many nights like that.

Ray's teeth are sharp on Fraser's lips, but Fraser doesn't try to get away; he spreads his legs wider, wishing they'd successfully gotten out of their jeans. He doesn't want to wait anymore; he wants what Ray's body is promising, wants to be fucked and hurt and given new bruises, wants to feel Ray's hands and mouth and teeth on the bruises he's already wearing. He tries to get his other arm free, tries to shove his hands between them so he can get his jeans off, but Ray just tightens his grip on Fraser's wrist and reaches up with his free hand to grab hold of Fraser's hair, pinning his head down to the pillow.

"Ray, for God's sake--"

"Okay, okay, okay," Ray whispers, punctuating each and every one of those words with a soft, smacking kiss to Fraser's mouth, but when he finally lets Fraser go, he starts sliding down the bed--sliding down Fraser's body, still kissing him, hands sweeping down Fraser's sides and--_oh, God, Ray_\--scratching over Fraser's bruises as he goes. His mouth takes detours as his hands find the bruises, old and new, faded and forming, and by the time he gets to Fraser's waist, Fraser's entire body is vibrating, and Fraser's hands are fisted in Ray's sheets as Fraser stares straight up at the ceiling, understanding now what Ray meant when he said he didn't want to go off like a shot. Fraser doesn't know how long he can bear this, either.

Finally, _finally_, Ray gets to Fraser's jeans, and he helps Fraser out of them, being as gentle as he can while denim scrapes down against the few incidental marks Fraser's carrying below the waist. Fraser pushes his boxers away, too, and there's a pause while Ray unlaces Fraser's boots and helps him out of those, but then it's done, and everything's gone now, boots and jeans and underwear and it's just Fraser, exposed and hard, bruised and scarred, waiting for Ray to say something.

"I used to think you'd break if I touched you," Ray says softly.

"I've never been as fragile as that," Fraser murmurs, coming up on his elbows. "But I've often wished you'd try."

* * *

"Don't say it if you don't mean it," Ray says. Fraser blinks up at him for a moment, but then his face slides into this beautiful wide grin, and Ray moans, leaning down again, crushing his mouth to Fraser's and pinning Fraser's body down under his own.

He's got permission, now, full clearance to touch and kiss and not worry about scraping Fraser raw with his half-open jeans or hands that are too damn excited to be careful, and he uses every inch of that clearance, thrusting down hard against Fraser's cock, wrestling and struggling until Fraser gives way and lets Ray pin him. Fraser doesn't stop fighting entirely--just when Ray thinks it's all over, Fraser'll move his wrist or his arm or just jerk at Ray's grip, like he's testing--but he lets Ray keep the upper hand, lets Ray hold him down and rock down against him, and eventually Fraser's rocking _up_, moving his hips like he's looking to get off just this way, just here, naked, under Ray's half-clothed body, like he's decided it's time to stop waiting.

Ray can get behind that idea. Ray can really, really get behind the idea of not waiting anymore. He lets Fraser's hands go and pushes up on one of his elbows, making just enough space to shove a hand between them and get his fly open the rest of the way--and as soon as Fraser catches on that he's doing that, he's right there with Ray, helping out, pushing Ray's jeans and boxers down his thighs. It gets to a point where Ray can't really do this without getting out of bed, so he goes--earning a frustrated curse out of Fraser, and mild though it is, it makes Ray grin.

"I don't know if I've ever heard you say 'damn it' like that before," he says, finally getting his jeans off.

"You don't come to the fighting clubs often enough," Fraser says.

"Y'know, before tonight, I mighta disagreed with that," Ray says, but now he's naked, and he surges back onto the bed, tackling Fraser down, hands going into Fraser's hair, holding him down so he can lick and kiss and suck on Fraser's lips, and Fraser doesn't fight any of that--he just reaches down and puts his hands on Ray's ass, grinding up against him all over again.

Ray levers himself up again, looking down into Fraser's eyes. "You gotta--I can't--"

"--don't stop now, Ray, please, I need--" Fraser moans, thrusting up, his cock sliding against Ray's inner thigh, and Ray thinks, _fuck it_, because right now even waiting long enough to get a condom seems like it'd take him away from Fraser for too fucking long.

* * *

Fraser's dizzy with it, maddened by it, so lust-fogged he can only pant out his breaths against Ray's bruised mouth and hold onto Ray's ass and thrust up against Ray, path slickened slightly by precome and sweat. Dimly, he realizes that yes, being fucked might be better; yes, sucking Ray's cock might be even more overwhelming than this; but moving to do either of those things would mean _stopping_, and he--he _can't_, now, he _needs_ this, needs Ray hurting him and kissing him and meeting every single one of Fraser's needs with equally-brutal needs of his own.

He squeezes Ray's ass with one hand and scratches his nails up Ray's back with the other, and Ray breaks away from their kiss to shout, openmouthed and hoarse, above Fraser's head. "Yeah," Ray gasps, "Ben, _more_\--c'mon, c'mon, more, Ben, more--"

But Fraser can't. He can't, because Ray saying _Ben_ and pleading with him for more is enough to send Fraser flying over the edge, blunting his cries by sinking his teeth into Ray's shoulder, cock spurting hot, thick pulses between their stomachs.

Ray shoves Fraser down, hissing as Fraser's teeth scrape and scratch his shoulder, and then he's taking his pleasure from Fraser, _using_ him, his cock sliding fast and heavy against Fraser's belly--the path's still slippery from Fraser's come, and as Fraser watches, as Fraser holds onto Ray and takes in every moment, Ray bites down hard on his lower lip and shoves his hips forward once--twice--and then he's coming, thrusting against Fraser's body again and again and again as he finishes, and _now_ Fraser's sorry he didn't wait, sorry he doesn't get to feel Ray slamming into his ass with every last one of those desperate-looking strokes.

He kisses Ray's mouth, feather-light, back and forth from corner to corner, as Ray finally finishes groaning and settles back down on top of him. Once Ray collapses, Fraser has to move his kisses to Ray's cheek, but even there he's got bruises to rest his lips against.

* * *

Ray falls asleep.

He doesn't mean to, but it's been a while since he had blow-the-roof-off sex like this, and Fraser feels warm and comfortable underneath him, smells like sex and sweat and that thing that's uniquely Mountie--like the wool scent from the uniform rubs off, sticks around even when Fraser's undressed.

When he comes to, he jerks awake with a grunt and struggles to untangle himself from Fraser, who winces and gasps--Ray realizes his knees and elbows might be kinda sharp, now, and they're stuck together, and God, what a mess--and Fraser's hanging on, like he doesn't _want_ to be untangled.

"Ray, Ray, Ray--" There he goes, broken record on Ray's name, Fraser's way of getting his attention without actually having to raise his voice.

"What--"

"Here, let me--"

Fraser grunts and twists, and he gets them turned over on their sides. "All right?" Fraser murmurs, reaching up and stroking his fingers through Ray's hair, fingertips just missing the bruise on Ray's temple.

"Yeah," Ray murmurs back. "Yeah, okay."

He's just wondering if he should make the standard offers--shower, coffee, a ride home--when Fraser bites down on his lower lip and rests his hand on Ray's shoulder. His thumb grazes over that spot he bit, earlier, and Ray sucks in a breath, remembering just how he got that one.

"Can I stay?" Fraser asks quietly.

Ray's heart does a stuttering little thump in his chest. "I don't have to be anywhere tomorrow."

Fraser nods. "In that case..." He starts getting himself untwisted around Ray, pulling away instead of moving towards. It's a surprise at first, but then Fraser puts his hand to that bruise on his ribs and falls onto his back. "I think I'll take that ice now, if you wouldn't mind."

"Yeah, sure, of course--" Ray grimaces as he gets out of bed. "God--what _I_ need is a nice hot shower--"

Fraser blinks up at him. "I don't suppose you'd like some company?"

Ray stops at the edge of the bed and holds a hand out to Fraser. "Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, I would."

Fraser's hand fits into his all neat and firm, and they've got matched scrapes on their knuckles. Ray holds on tight, like Fraser might disappear if he doesn't keep a grip on him, and they're halfway to the shower before Ray realizes Fraser's clinging every bit as hard.

_-end-_


End file.
